My 3 Poems
Inherited Hands
I thought you should know
Incase you thought no one mourned for you
I did.
I cried in the pasta aisle at the grocery store.
Thanked God for the rain as I cried at the bus stop
Cried myself into red eyes and headache.
I cried for you.
Cleaning out your bedroom
I sneak slipped random artifacts into my pockets.
Hurried, like this ship was going down
and I had to preserve some crumb of your hardtack existence.
Baseball cards,
a tie clip,
a name tag,
an ink pen,
the draft card typewriter typed up when you turned 18
and I was not even so much a possibility in your timeline.
I wore your wristwatch on Tuesday.
Kept the hours right where you left them
I was late everywhere I went
This would have driven you crazy
I sang into your hairbrush this morning-
not as pitch perfect as you ever did-
but I sang for you.
I cried for you
When I found myself finally alone in your house
I tore open drawers and closets
looking for some unknown unnamed piece of you-
some proof that would make sense of why despite your razor tongue
despite a temper that buried everyone around you in bomb shelter skin until the very day you died
I was crying for you.
Crying for your empty handed end.
No one kissing your temple
no one ushering you with whispers of affection off this blue marble.
I cried for you.
I feared for me
Feared inheriting your empty hands,
filled the air scared of them,
filled my pockets scared of them.
Grandma told me that the dead don’t look down on us from heaven,
that when we die we forget our earthly existence.
I pray you’ve forgotten me already
paid no mind to my mourning
or the eulogy I wrote for you in soot
if it means you never meet your own empty hands again
Vermillion Border
There is a boy on the east coast who never once told me I was pretty
but whose tongue,
whose sideways glance
whose slow motion heart beat
found splendor like a lost contact lens in a dark ally
made me second guess the gospels written in gravel on my palms
and never once promised me anything.
His name tastes like fire escapes
Just left of this Ohio Heart of the Midwest is the one who got away
In the south there is another whose voices rattle my midnight window panes
He paces a new Mason Dixon every sundowncrumples fists like paper for every hand crafted mistake
tosses away each movement in hopes of making himself better
He makes me nervous
But when he calls me darlin it tastes like sweet tea
the kind they treat like novelty in the north
serve it with a sidecar of sweeteners in every color paper
all of them taste like Ohio and boys who cant say my name right.
On the West Coast is a boy who barely knows I exist
but I’d like him to hold my hand the very first time I touch my toes to the Ocean
The thin space between your lips and your face is called the vermilion boarder
If windows are eyes-this is welcomemat
There is a corner of this space that has been ripped and stitched-pulls when I smile
when I kiss
This is the space where sugar grains stick
The space where like to slowly drag my finger on chilly Sunday mornings in bed
The place I call home
A Prayer for Broken Tongues
The church prayer tree is an automated system
We are our own pulpits
So make a joyful noise
Let it be heard
We slow march a candlelight vigil
Tempting the wind to snuff flame
building alters
and making offerings to
our patron saints
and our favorite blessed demons
Make a joyful noise
Wring the prayers from the sagging swollen ceiling
Wring the hymnals from my dirty hands
Wring the ink from the bed sheets
Make a joyful noise
Listen,there is a chorus of clawfooted angels
dancing gospels into the bathroom tiles,
answering the shower head like a party line telephone.
Let it be heard.
Break dawn like cheap dishes
Erect an army of skeletons from the flatware
Strike matches from the backs of your teeth
Let the tired rest on your pews
Let it be heard
Your back is not a doorway
Your fingers are keys to the church organ
Open your mouth
Make a joyful noise
Let be heard
Forever and ever
Make a noise
Make a noise
Be heard
Amen.
I thought you should know
Incase you thought no one mourned for you
I did.
I cried in the pasta aisle at the grocery store.
Thanked God for the rain as I cried at the bus stop
Cried myself into red eyes and headache.
I cried for you.
Cleaning out your bedroom
I sneak slipped random artifacts into my pockets.
Hurried, like this ship was going down
and I had to preserve some crumb of your hardtack existence.
Baseball cards,
a tie clip,
a name tag,
an ink pen,
the draft card typewriter typed up when you turned 18
and I was not even so much a possibility in your timeline.
I wore your wristwatch on Tuesday.
Kept the hours right where you left them
I was late everywhere I went
This would have driven you crazy
I sang into your hairbrush this morning-
not as pitch perfect as you ever did-
but I sang for you.
I cried for you
When I found myself finally alone in your house
I tore open drawers and closets
looking for some unknown unnamed piece of you-
some proof that would make sense of why despite your razor tongue
despite a temper that buried everyone around you in bomb shelter skin until the very day you died
I was crying for you.
Crying for your empty handed end.
No one kissing your temple
no one ushering you with whispers of affection off this blue marble.
I cried for you.
I feared for me
Feared inheriting your empty hands,
filled the air scared of them,
filled my pockets scared of them.
Grandma told me that the dead don’t look down on us from heaven,
that when we die we forget our earthly existence.
I pray you’ve forgotten me already
paid no mind to my mourning
or the eulogy I wrote for you in soot
if it means you never meet your own empty hands again
Vermillion Border
There is a boy on the east coast who never once told me I was pretty
but whose tongue,
whose sideways glance
whose slow motion heart beat
found splendor like a lost contact lens in a dark ally
made me second guess the gospels written in gravel on my palms
and never once promised me anything.
His name tastes like fire escapes
Just left of this Ohio Heart of the Midwest is the one who got away
In the south there is another whose voices rattle my midnight window panes
He paces a new Mason Dixon every sundowncrumples fists like paper for every hand crafted mistake
tosses away each movement in hopes of making himself better
He makes me nervous
But when he calls me darlin it tastes like sweet tea
the kind they treat like novelty in the north
serve it with a sidecar of sweeteners in every color paper
all of them taste like Ohio and boys who cant say my name right.
On the West Coast is a boy who barely knows I exist
but I’d like him to hold my hand the very first time I touch my toes to the Ocean
The thin space between your lips and your face is called the vermilion boarder
If windows are eyes-this is welcomemat
There is a corner of this space that has been ripped and stitched-pulls when I smile
when I kiss
This is the space where sugar grains stick
The space where like to slowly drag my finger on chilly Sunday mornings in bed
The place I call home
A Prayer for Broken Tongues
The church prayer tree is an automated system
We are our own pulpits
So make a joyful noise
Let it be heard
We slow march a candlelight vigil
Tempting the wind to snuff flame
building alters
and making offerings to
our patron saints
and our favorite blessed demons
Make a joyful noise
Wring the prayers from the sagging swollen ceiling
Wring the hymnals from my dirty hands
Wring the ink from the bed sheets
Make a joyful noise
Listen,there is a chorus of clawfooted angels
dancing gospels into the bathroom tiles,
answering the shower head like a party line telephone.
Let it be heard.
Break dawn like cheap dishes
Erect an army of skeletons from the flatware
Strike matches from the backs of your teeth
Let the tired rest on your pews
Let it be heard
Your back is not a doorway
Your fingers are keys to the church organ
Open your mouth
Make a joyful noise
Let be heard
Forever and ever
Make a noise
Make a noise
Be heard
Amen.